Backward
by sirona7
Summary: This vignette tries to imagine what therapy would be like for Jack Bristow


Title: Backward   
  
Author: sirona7  
  
Email: lclos@aol.com  
  
URLs: Posted at www.nocturnalactivities.net  
  
Keywords: Vignette, Missing Scene, Jack POV, Jack/Dr. Barnett  
  
Timeline: S1, Snowman  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Summary: Jack hits the wall and the only way out is Dr. Barnett.  
  
Author's Note: This is my first fanfic effort and I appreciate your constructive criticism.   
Thanks!  
  
Disclaimer: Alias and its characters belong to J.J. Abrams and ABC. I own nothing and   
will not profit from this story. "Snowman" was written by the excellent team of Jesse   
Alexander & Jeff Pinkner.  
*******  
  
BACKWARD  
He took a long sip of Macallans and settled deep in the soft leather chair. The study was the   
only space in the 12 room apartment where he felt at ease. The other rooms, designer   
furnished and carefully polished, were a showplace worthy of a successful businessman.   
But balanced against this generous measure of expense and elegance was the sense of total   
artifice one finds in a 5-star hotel; richness devoid of the personal. There was nothing taped   
to the refrigerator in Jack Bristow's world. Yet in the confines of the little study, there were   
glimpses of the man. Among the few objects on the burnished wood and leather desk was a   
worn-shiny model Roman soldier, a faded photograph in a bent metal frame, and in a place   
of honor, a poorly-shaped but lovingly-painted blue and green pot.   
  
He pulled the Titanium notebook from the locked drawer. He was at ease with most   
operating systems but it pleased him to use Macintosh, a tiny act of rebellion against the   
monolith. The machine hummed to a start as the opening notes of Schumann's "Ich hab'im   
Traum geweinet" resonated through the room.   
  
Jack had configured the laptop to allow ten seconds to input the password or the system   
would erase all but the startup files and shut down. As the pale blue desktop came to life,   
Jack leaned forward to begin work. He created a new folder.   
  
Jack considered the doctor's request for a journal with distaste bordering on bile rising in   
the throat. If only he hadn't weakened; well, it was inevitable really once it began. To keep   
Sydney safe, he was compelled to watch it. More accurately, he watched as much of it as   
he could bear. It was hearing the contempt in her voice that forced this repellent move. A   
tiny mercy that the picture was too grainy to show the look on her face when she   
confidently observed, "Jack Bristow was a fool." That was the moment, standing in the   
middle of a frozen lake, that he felt the ice crack under his feet. Do you hold fast and hope   
it won't crack further or do you run like hell to the shore? And so it was that he had   
hastened to Dr. Barnett's door for Jack was nothing if not a survivor.   
  
"If it's a journal you want, it's a journal you get."   
  
The assignment was a very important part of the therapy, she said in her earnest way. "You   
need to keep a journal, write in it everyday, share your thoughts and fears and hopes." She   
wanted him to pay particular attention to his dreams. "Dreams, hell, I haven't had a dream   
that wasn't worthy of Hieronymus Bosch in twenty years." He grinned at the thought of   
the tiny devils thrusting pitchforks into the bottoms of the righteous and the damned   
equally.   
  
Savoring another draught of the burly scotch, he turned his attention to the matter at hand.   
  
*******  
  
Journal entry 1   
  
You asked me to keep a journal. To be completely honest, I am telling you at the outset that   
I loathe the whole idea. I don't see what purpose it will serve to commit this to paper.   
Shouldn't talking be sufficient? You don't have any idea what a tremendous liability   
feelings can be to my work. I can't really afford to rake over all this, especially not now.   
However, since you seem determined to pry loose old walls, I hope you're prepared for the   
fall-out.   
  
You asked about memories of my parents and that's easy, I don't have any. I have a picture   
of my mother and father on their wedding day. I know the date because it's written on the   
back-December 19, 1949. I know that they were from Ireland and came to Canada two   
months before I was born. She was a singer of traditional music. I was born in London   
Ontario but I think we lived in Toronto. My parents died when I was about 4 and I went to   
live with my uncle.   
  
Well, not really live with him, he was a priest and he sent me to live in a church school. I   
lived there until I was 15 when I started college.   
  
I went to Harvard on a math scholarship. I did my work as an undergraduate in a cross-  
disciplinary program with MIT where I continued on in physics for a Ph.D. (My work was   
on super cold atoms. At the time, about 50 people in the world really understood the field.   
Of course, that number has tripled since then. Would you like to read my dissertation? I   
have copy around here somewhere.)   
  
It was during my first year as a grad student in 1967 that I was recruited. That protracted   
process should be in my record, in the worldly, effortless prose of my recruiter and mentor   
at Harvard, Dr. Fast. Of course, I would hope that you've already seen this opus.   
  
I imagine you're interested in memories of meeting the woman I would marry. She was a   
grad student in literature and we met at a physics department picnic in July 1971. It was her   
voice really that I noticed first. I'd just seen King Lear and the beauty of a woman's voice   
was on my mind. When she spoke, instantly I understood what Shakespeare meant. But   
then the bard has written many words which could describe her.   
  
So endeth the first lesson.   
  
*******  
  
"That's it for now-393 words, good number." Jack spun the chair round to look out the   
window onto the skyline of Los Angeles. "So, here I sit in the early candlelight of old   
age." What was the rest of that? He picked the worn volume of Whitman from the shelf. "I   
and my book--casting backward glances over our travel'd road." he read aloud and settled   
in as he did most nights when he was not on an assignment. After an hour, he rose and   
stretched and stood by the window.   
  
Days like this one made him feel every moment of his 52 years. His mind wandered over   
the events of the afternoon. The scene played out as vividly as if he were watching it on a   
stage. This duet had the feel of early Sondheim.   
  
********   
  
Jack Bristow sat across the desk from Dr. Barnett, willing himself to appear relaxed. This   
was going to be tough. She had called his bluff once already and he hadn't yet decided   
which way to play his role. "Stay icy Jack. Observe every detail. She dresses the part of   
successful professional in her pale blue linen dress, long blond hair held back by a tortoise   
shell clasp. Her demeanor is cool and clinical but not unpleasant. No wedding ring or   
pictures of kiddies or dogs. No holiday snaps or motivational posters. This is to the good.   
There are the degrees, all from UCLA. Residency there as well. She didn't have the feel of   
Boston or New York, let alone Houston or Miami, no Jack could easily believe she was a   
native. It fit her; confident, open, inquisitive."   
  
"It's good to see you, Jack. I'm glad you're here."   
  
"Oh God, she wants to establish rapport," he thought. "Yes, thanks for making time." He   
smiled a guarded smile.   
  
She returned a practiced professional smile, warm but not revealing. "Please sit down."   
  
He chose a handsome armchair across the desk from Dr. Barnett. He inched it over enough   
that, sitting there, he could also see the door.   
  
"Is there something particular you want to talk about?"   
  
"I hardly know where to begin."   
  
"I got the impression from earlier today that something might have happened?"   
  
Her gaze narrowed to focus on his eyes and her tone of voice was sincere without being   
saccharine.   
  
Somewhat to his surprise, he felt the rush of words come out in a poisonous garble. "I   
came today because...this isn't easy for me...I wanted to talk to you because I watched a   
video of the debriefing...her debriefing...I'd never seen it you know...I didn't, I mean   
they never told me...about her being alive..." Pausing to catch his breath. "I'm not usually   
this inarticulate." He felt light-headed and nauseated, the way you do when a plane   
suddenly loses altitude. This was a feeling he'd had countless times in the past twenty   
years. He breathed deep to focus his thoughts and staunch the panic he felt when his field   
of vision shrank to a dark-edged tunnel.   
  
Dr. Barnett nodded. "Your wife?"   
  
"I beg your pardon."   
  
"Was it your wife's debriefing?"   
  
"Irina Derevko is the subject of the video, yes."   
  
Dr. Barnett turned slightly in her chair, she seemed to be reining herself in tightly. "Aren't   
they the same?" she asked.   
  
His face showed flickers of grief and anger as he answered, "That's not germane to the   
discussion at hand."   
  
"Jack, let's digress a little. I think it would be best to establish some ground rules."   
  
"Agreed."   
  
"This works best when I can ask you questions. And not just the questions you will allow   
me to ask. By its very nature what we do here needs to be open-ended and open-minded,   
it's meant to allow associations to emerge."   
  
"Then we shouldn't waste time quibbling about semantics."   
  
"What are you talking about?"   
  
"'This' will only advance if you agree to Irina Derevko and not anything else. No other   
references. Period."   
  
With a look of incredulousness, Dr. Barnett stated, "But, Jack, she was your wife."   
  
"That woman was never my wife."   
  
"Yes she was."   
  
"NO SHE WASN'T." Rising from the chair and heading to the door, Jack reached for the   
door handle. He paused and spit back at her, "This was a mistake. I shouldn't have wasted   
my time or yours."   
  
Dr. Barnett reacted quickly. "Jack wait. Please." She walked around the desk and stood   
close enough to Jack to cause him to step slightly back. Her look was convincingly   
concerned. "Bottomline, Jack, you tell the story here, not me. Not my way, your way."   
She retreated to a chair next to the one he had nearly upset.   
  
"Come on, let's try this again." She sat down. "Please." Looking up at him while he   
considered what to do, she said, "You can decide at the end of the session if you want to   
return. But, for now, why not talk? It took a lot to get in the door."   
  
He nodded ever so slightly.   
  
"So, are we agreed?"   
  
Jack felt the ice breaking again. Damn her and damn every day since he had first laid eyes   
on that woman. He released the door knob and returned to the chair. He paused, trying to   
gather his composure, "It's getting harder to control the variables I have to control to stay   
on top and protect my daughter. I'm concerned that I may put her in jeopardy if I can't find   
a way to make sense of all this."   
  
"Let's explore what you mean by 'making sense of all this'."   
  
*******   
  
Awkwardly rasping at each other's rough notes, they'd managed to finish their first scene   
together. "That deserves a round of applause if only for perseverance." Jack thought. Even   
for one so used to a life of grave dangers, this day had been terrifying. Jack drained the last   
of the glass and yawned. He picked up the ugly little pot and held it for a moment. Then   
replacing it on the desk, he turned out the light and went to bed.   
  
THE END 


End file.
